Alan Glynn: Winterland

Christy remains seated. He looks over at Noel, who is still at his table, but slumped forward now, his head at an awkward angle. He looks like someone who has drunk too much and passed out. From the angle Christy is at, and before his view is closed off, he is able to make out a bullet hole in Noel’s forehead. There is a small trickle of blood coming from it.

Christy looks down at his pint, and at the cigarette in the ashtray. Smoke is still rising from the cigarette. He lifts it up and takes a drag from it. In all his decades as a smoker, no cigarette has ever tasted as good.

PENSIONER’S RACING PULSE RETURNS TO NORMAL.

He glances around. A lot of people are just standing in the rain now. They are in shock, waiting for something to happen. Most of them are talking – to each other or into mobile phones. Some have umbrellas, others are huddled into their jackets.

The man beside Christy nudges him again in the elbow.

‘Jesus,’ he says, lifting his pint, ‘it’s all go here tonight, what?’

One of the mobile calls made out of the beer garden is to a guy in Dolphin’s Barn, a ‘business associate’ of Noel’s. This business associate calls someone who lives in Stonybatter, and the person who lives in Stonybatter calls a cousin of his in Crumlin, who in turn calls someone he knows in Dolanstown. Within minutes, everyone in Dublin knows what’s happened. Well, not every one – that comes with the next news bulletin on the radio at ten or eleven o’clock – but everyone who matters.

Noel’s mother, Catherine, hears about it from her brother – who’s also called Noel. He’s in a hotel bar in the city centre with an associate of his own, Paddy Norton, the chairman of Winterland Properties. The two men are in the middle of a heated argument when Noel gets the call from Jackie, and though it’s awkward he holds a hand up, excuses himself and goes outside. He then gets on the phone to Catherine, breaks the news and tells her he’ll be out to her gaff in twenty minutes. She’s hysterical, but what can he do? He’s barely able to get his head around the news himself.

He walks to the multilevel car park down the street and takes the elemore or up to the top.

The weird thing is, although his nephew was undoubtedly a pain in the arse – unpredictable, hard to get along with, maybe even a little messed up in the head (not unlike his old man, come to think of it) – he wasn’t stupid, and by all accounts he was pretty level-headed when it came to business.

So what happened?

Noel can only guess. Most gangland killings, apparently, in the end, come down to one of three things: a turf dispute, someone creaming off the top, or a clash of personalities. All three are possible in this case, he supposes, though knowing his nephew, only the last one seems really likely.

Noel climbs into his SUV and makes his way down the five levels to the entrance as fast as he can, tyres screeching at every turn. But Dublin’s nightlife is hopping and when he pulls out onto Drury Street the traffic is practically at a standstill. He hunches over the steering wheel.

He doesn’t need this, just as he doesn’t need the band of pain that starts throbbing now behind his eyes.

The traffic moves forward, but only a yard or two. It stops again.

Rubbing his eyes, Noel thinks back to what happened in the hotel bar. He didn’t need that either. He didn’t need Paddy Norton jabbing him in the chest with his finger, and he certainly didn’t need another rundown of the arguments – arguments he’s been hearing incessantly now for the last two or three days. The timing of Jackie’s call didn’t help either, of course. Leaving in a hurry like that made it seem as if he were running away. It was -

Noel shakes his head.

What he does need here, maybe, is a little perspective. Richmond Plaza, like any big development, is going to have its fair share of problems. All the ones so far have been surmountable, and this one won’t be any different.

His nephew, on the other hand, is dead .

As they approach George’s Street, the traffic loosens up a bit. Noel takes his mobile out again. He needs to talk to someone. He calls Jackie and asks him if he’s heard anything else.

‘No, and it’s a little strange to tell you the truth. I called around, but pretty much hit a brick wall.’

A detective superintendent based in Harcourt Street, Jackie Merrigan is a good friend of Noel’s and – important in the construction industry – a valuable source of information inside Garda headquarters. Over the last year or so, as a favour to Noel, he’s also been providing updates of a different kind.

‘So, what do you think?’ Noel asks. ‘Was it a professional hit?’

‘Oh, I’d say so, yeah.’

‘Jesus.’

‘It has all the hallmarks.’

Noel pauses, shaking his head. ‘I’m still in shock here. I mean, I was having a drink with Paddy Norton and I just walked out on the man, didn’t look back.’

‘Understandable, Noel.’

‘Yeah. Listen. Thanks. Anyway, I’m heading out to my sister’s now.’

‘Right.’ There is a pause. ‘Pass on my condolences, will you?’

‘Sure. I’ll talk to you again.’

Noel hits End. As he holds the phone in his hand, something occurs to him. He left his folder sitting on the hotel bar.

Shit.

What does he do now? Call Norton? Arrange to swing by his house later to pick it up? He’ll have to. He’s got that conference call in the morning with head office in Paris.

Shit .

But he can’t be thinking about this now. He can’t . He puts the phone back into his pocket.

A couple of minutes later, he’s turning off the South Circular, then crossing the canal, and once he’s on Clogher Road, at this time of night, it’s a straight run all the way out to Dolanstown.

Alone in the house, Catherine is reeling from the news. When the phone rang, she was sipping a vodka and Coke, but now she refills the glass with just vodka and takes a long hit from it. She puts the glass down and picks up her mobile. She phones one of her sisters, Yvonne, who lives nearby, and tells her the news. After the initial shock, Yvonne is all business. She says give her fifteen minutes, that she’ll call Michelle and Gina and then come over. Catherine also calls Mrs Collins next door, who says she’ll come in and sit with her until Yvonne arrives.

The TV is still on. Catherine was watching a rerun of Friends , and even though she’s not watching it now, she can’t bring herself to turn it off – not until someone arrives, it’s company, and anyway holding the remote in her hand makes her feel like she’s doing something, like she’s in control. Through all of this – the calls, the standing around, the Friends – she continues crying, either in silence, with tears running down her cheeks, or at full tilt – all out and uncontrollable. At one point, she catches sight of herself in the mirror and gets a fright. Is she really that old looking? Is she really that old ?

This all seems unreal to her, like it’s happening to someone else. Given what Noel was involved in, though, it’s not as if she hasn’t already pictured the scene a hundred times, on a hundred other nights. It’s just that the reality of it is, well… different.

When Mrs Collins arrives Catherine immediately regrets having phoned her. The woman is kind, but too kind, you know, she’d smother you with kindness, and now five seconds in the door she’s already hard at it. After a while Yvonne arrives and takes over, thankfully – even though the first thing she does is whip the glass of vodka away from Catherine, saying a shot or two is fine, for your nerves, but you don’t want to overdo it. The cops’ll be here soon, she says, and you’ll probably have to go somewhere to identify the body, and anyway there’ll be plenty of time for drinking later. Then she puts the kettle on – the kettle, the fucking kettle .